Suckers - Jack Kilborn [4]
“Like a hostage trade. I’ll call up Ms. Cummings, and trade Julia for Marcus.”
“Do you think it’ll work?”
“Only one way to find out.”
I picked up the phone.
“Ms. Cummings? I have your dog.”
“I know. I watched you steal him an hour ago.”
For someone who looked like a mime, she was sure full of comments.
“If you’d like your dog back, we can make a deal.”
“Is my little Poopsie okay? Are you taking care of her?”
“She’s fine. I can see why you call her Poopsie.”
“Does Miss Julia still have the trots? Poor thing.”
I stared at the land mines dotting my floor. “Yeah. I’m all broken up about it.”
“Make sure she eats well. Only braised liver and the leanest pork.”
Julia was currently snacking on a tuna sandwich I’d dropped under the desk sometime last week.
“I’ll do that. Look, I want to make a trade.”
I had to play it cool here, if she knew I knew about Marcus, she’d know Thorpe was the one who hired me.
“What kind of trade?”
“I don’t want a female dog. I want a male.”
“Did Vincent Thorpe hire you?”
Dammit.
“Uh, never heard of him.”
“Mr. Thorpe claims I have his dog, Marcus. But the last time I saw Marcus was at an AKC show last April. I have no idea where his dog is.”
“That’s not how he tells it.”
Nice, Harry. I tried to regroup.
“Look, Cummings, you have twelve hours to come up with a male dog. I also want sixty dollars, cash.”
Thorpe nudged me and mouthed, “Sixty dollars?”
I put my hand over the mouthpiece. “Carpet cleaning.”
“I don’t know if I can find a male dog in just 12 hours, Mr. Dognapper.”
“Then I turn Julia into a set of luggage.”
I heard her gasp. “You horrible man!”
“I’ll do it, too. She’s got enough hide on her to make two suitcases and a carry-on. The wrinkled look is hot this year.”
I scratched Julia on the head, and she licked my chin. Her breath made me teary-eyed.
“Please don’t hurt my dog.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow morning with the details. If you contact the police, I’ll mail you Julia’s tail.”
“I…I already called the police. I called them right after you left.”
Hell. “Well, don’t call the police again. I have a friend at the Post Office who gives me a discount rate. I’m there twice a week, mailing doggie parts.”
I hit the disconnect.
“Did it work?” Thorpe asked.
“Like a charm. Go home and get some rest. In about twelve hours, you’ll have your dog back.”
The trick was finding an exchange location where I wouldn’t be conspicuous in a ski mask. Chicago had several ice rinks, but I didn’t think any of them allowed dogs.
I decided on the alley behind the Congress Hotel, off of Michigan Avenue. I got there two hours early to check the place out.
Time crawled by. I kept track of it in my notepad.
9:02am—Arrive at scene. Don’t see any cops. Pull on ski mask and wait.
9:11am—It sure is hot.
9:33am—Julia finds some rotting fruit behind the dumpster. Eats it.
10:01am—Boy, is it hot.
10:20am—I think I’m getting a heat rash in this mask. Am I allergic to wool?
10:38am—Julia finds a dead rat. Eats it.
10:40am—Sure is a hot one.
11:02am—Play fetch with the dog, using my pencil.
Julia ate the pencil. I was going to jot this down on the pad, but you can guess how that went.
“Julia!”
The dog jerked on the leash, tugging me to my feet. Abigail Cummings had arrived. She wore a pink linen pants suit, and more make-up than the Rockettes. All of them, combined. I fought the urge to carve my initials in her cheek with my fingernail.
Dog and dog owner had a happy little reunion, hugging and licking, and I was getting ready to sigh in relief when I noticed the pooch Abigail had brought with her.
“I’m no expert, but isn’t that a Collie?”
“A Collie/Shepherd mix. I picked him up at the shelter.”
“That’s not Marcus.”
Abigail frowned at me. “I told you before, Mr. Dognapper. I don’t have Vincent Thorpe’s dog.”
Her bottom lip began to quiver, and her eyes went glassy. I realized, to my befuddlement, that I actually believed her.
“Fine. Give me the mutt.”
Abigail handed me the leash. I stared down at the dog. It was a male, but I doubted I could fool Thorpe into thinking it was Marcus.